


An Arrow or Three

by Neea



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Based on Roche's Path, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Burn, Violence, What happened between witcher 2 and witcher 3, will update tags as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2018-11-29 12:59:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11441382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neea/pseuds/Neea
Summary: Roche's whole life has been one giant ball of crap, served cold. Why would it ever get better? Especially when trying to outsmart Nilfgaard....





	1. Well shit

“Shit, shit, shit, shit…” cursed Roche as he made his way through the dark forest. The protruding roots of the trees were trying their best to trip him while spine plants and sharp branches dragged painful lines over his exposed skin. He could hear the footsteps of the platoon close on his trail, making the hairs on the back of his neck rise in anxiety.

“A fucking disaster…” he whispered angrily to himself as he trudged forward through the unfriendly terrain. A mile or so behind him smoke was rising from where his unit had been taken by surprise and slaughtered. It should have been the other way around. His forces should have ambushed the Nilfgaardians, destroyed them and advanced towards their established outpost near the north of the Dol-Blathanna line. 

“A snitch… god damn it.” He spit while thinking of his men, butchered like cattle among the dying trees. There had been no warning, no sound when the rain of arrows fell down upon them. A tactic of the Scoia’tael, but when used by the Nilfgaardians it was extremely deadly. Combined with the buried traps all around, they hadn’t stood a chance. Half of them fell to the arrows that pierced through their light armor like butter. A quarter got stuck or got badly mutilated in the traps buried under the fallen leaves on the forest floor. What was left got jumped by a platoon of about twenty swordsmen. His men had bought him time to escape with their bodies. He felt like crying and screaming at the world for its unfairness. Gone was Temeria’s king at the merciless blade of an assassin, gone were his loyal companions, hanged by that crazy bastard of a king Hensel, and gone were most of the men currently under his command. At least Ves stayed behind, taking temporary leadership of the resistance in his absence. It was a small comfort to know that she was out of harm’s way.

“Shit.” Fate dealt the hound of Temeria a rather cruel hand. A light rustle of a bush near by and the sound of a snapping bow a mere second later, and he knew it was time to be reunited with his men in the pits of hell. Three snaps later and the pain registered, vertigo claiming his body as he watched the colorful bed of leafs on the ground coming closer and closer as if to embrace him. This was the end for the proud commander of Temeria’s Special Forces: an arrow or three in the back and a short fall down towards the dirty ground. A rather fitting end for a dh’oine like him. The image of a swearing elf passed in front of his eyes as darkness closed its maws upon him. Even in death the blasted elf haunted him. There was a hint of a smile on his lips as he succumbed to the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been planning to write this fic for 6 months now... Hopefully I'll finish it sometime this year >.>  
> Also I'm a lazy shit... only 400 words >.< And english is my 2nd language, please excuse any weird constructs lol.  
> Poor Roche...


	2. Bloede dh’oine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iorveth's POV. Iorveth's POV everywhere. Also, it will be with us in the next few chapters since Roche is too indisposed to speak yet. :)

He was sitting in a tree, playing his flute when he noticed the faint trail of smoke rising from the north of the forest. He knew he was close to the front lines between what remained of the North resistance and the Nilfgaardian army in the Dol-Blathanna area, but the sight was rather peculiar nonetheless. Any open conflict between the two sides would have been heard for miles around. Well, the Nilfgaardian side at least. This, though, was an inconspicuous trail of smoke. It was curious, enough so to make him want to take a better look despite having to risk his own safety. Iorveth sighed and mentally noted the direction where the smoke was coming from. It seemed a rather ways off from his current position, but closer to his hideout. He could check it out. Make sure it wasn’t something that could cause him any surprises in the future. He dropped down to the ground and headed north, trying to be as silent as possible. Whatever the cause of the smoke it was most likely unfriendly, especially towards him. It didn't matter if it was the Northern soldiers, the Nilfgaardians or any of Francesca's elven troops. He knew he would be targeted on sight, and with no men backing him up, the chances he would end up dead were quite high. There was no place for the Scoia'tael in the world anymore and no place for him. He locked this particular thought in the darkest corner of his mind and trudged forward through the dense vegetation.

It was still some ways off from the smoke when he saw signs of trampled plants behind a large tree that was surrounded by many shrubs. Narrowing his eyes, he approached the spot, carefully listening for any sounds that did not belong to the forest. There were none. On the contrary, the area was unusually quiet, like something had scared away all the wildlife. There were no other signs of who had been hiding there except for the trampled plants, so Iorveth decided to see what the individual had been waiting for. Sitting in the exact same spot it didn’t take long to spot three colorful arrow feathers and then the shafts protruding from an unmoving form on the ground about 400 meters ahead. It was a humanoid form, a body. He knew better than to go straight for it, choosing a circular route to make sure there wasn’t anyone else lying in ambush. There was no one. As he approached the still form he took note that it was a dh’oine. He sneered in disgust as he slowly circled the man. There were three arrows lodged in him: one in his right leg, one in his lower back and the last in his upper back. They seemed deeply embedded. The shooter was a skilled marksman. No signs of any missed shots. His gaze then swept towards the man's head and halted on the headset covering it. He froze as the sight of the familiar chaperon sank in.

“There are a million pieces similar to this one in the world, it can't be him" he whispered as he squatted down next to the still form. Still, his hand was trembling slightly as he reached to lift the head of the unconscious man. It took only moments to come face to face with the hated commander of Temeria's Special Forces, Vernon Roche.

“Ysgarthiad, bloede dh’oine*” he swore as he let Roche's head fall to the ground. His hand moved automatically to the man's throat, checking for any signs of life. Three seconds later he felt a weak pulse thrumming beneath his fingertips. The son of a bitch was still alive. Whoever had shot him down hadn’t bothered to check if he had actually died from the arrows. Either way, there wasn't a high chance of survival for Roche while lying on the forest ground unmoving and with arrows stuck in him like a hedgehog. Iorveth’s right hand automatically moved to his sword as he straightened himself. The choice was a simple one. He drew the blade and lifted it preparing to strike. One clean hit and Vernon Roche would depart from the world like the bloody dog he was, dirty and alone on the forest floor. Yet his hand remained still as a forgotten memory came back to him.

 

_Violent sounds of clashing blades could be heard all around them as he fought hard against that bloody dh’oine, Roche. Despite wielding his sword and his dagger, the man managed to get away from his strikes in the nick of time. He thought that this duel would have ended in a matter of seconds when he laid eyes on the special force commander alone in the forest, yet here they were fifteen minutes later, dancing around each other with only minor wounds. Still, his rapid strikes were draining his energy fast and the dh'oine refused to fall down. He swirled himself in a pirouette towards the human but Roche let himself slide to the side and his feet efficiently tripped the elf. As Iorveth tried to rise up, the tip of a sword was laid to rest on his neck. He froze and looked the man in the eyes._

_“Defeated by a dh’oine… I must be getting old. What now?” he asked, a peculiar calmness embracing him despite his unimpeded doom._

_“Consider yourself lucky. Though you deserve torture I lack the means so I’ll simply lop off your head. You’ll die a warrior’s death.” said Roche as he squatted down to look him in the eye._

_“I don’t regret a thing” murmured Iorveth as he turned his gaze towards the gray sky. The color was beckoning._

_“Impending death has addled your mind!” a hint of disbelief and amusement could easily be heard in Roche’s voice._

_“I don’t regret that it’s you… After so many years it would be stupid to die from an accidental bolt in the eye or worse yet, Influenza” he said wistfully as he watched the human come up to his feet and ready his sword. He would die a warrior’s death and maybe he would finally reach that peaceful place that he’s been searching for ever since the defeat of his people._

_"Damn, lucky again, your archers approach!” Roche said as he sheathed his sword. “I defeated you once Iorveth and I can do it again. Remember that!” shouted the man as he headed back into the forest, leaving Iorveth on the ground, battered but quite alive._

_“We shall see about that, friend. We shall see”_

 

There was a peculiar thing about this memory that had always bothered Iorveth whenever he recalled it. During the time it had taken Roche to declare how lucky he was that his archers were approaching and until his archers had finally reached him, the man could have chopped off his head an approximate of five times. It was not a time-consuming move to make. Yet he had let him live. Sometimes the treacherous thought of "deliberate" had poked its head out just like it did right now. It stopped his hand from moving forward. The man had been willing to give him a warrior's death, and then spared his life, deliberate or not, and here he was preparing to kill him like a dog. His hand moved down and sheathed his sword. He would offer him the same courtesy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Ysgarthiad, bloede dh’oine - Shit, bloody human
> 
> And here we go, a longer chapter! I know, grammar is still crappy (damn those weird time usages!!), but it sucks when you have no native english speaking beta :(.  
> This chapter and some of the next ones will be booorrring. Bear with me :)
> 
> Also, any reviews are always appreciated!


	3. An stráede geehaet

Sparing him from a quick death by his sword was one thing, but actually saving the dh’oine’s life was another story altogether. There wasn’t much Iorveth could do for Roche in the middle of the forest. Eying the arrows protruding from Roche’s back, he took hold of his dagger and got to work. He knew he couldn’t just pull the arrows out right there. Doing so would kill Roche in minutes from the heavy bleeding that would ensue from the arrowhead tearing his flesh. But he also couldn’t just pick up the man and drag him to his cave with 96 cm long arrows lodged inside him. The journey could cause even more damage just from the arrows dangling and moving around or worse yet, getting caught in tree branches or shrubs. So, he crouched down and took a good hold of the arrow base with his left hand. Gripping the dagger with his other hand, he cut the arrow shaft just above his thumb. His best bet was to shorten the arrows until he could get to a place where he could remove them more or less safely. He did the same thing with the remaining arrows then heaved himself up and sheathed the dagger. Iorveth eyed Roche’s still form thoughtfully, trying to figure out the best way to go about moving the man to his hideout. Making an improvised stretcher was out of the question. If anyone would come back looking for Roche's body, the tracks left on the ground would lead them straight to Iorveth. He'd have to carry the man himself. Sighing he bent down and grabbed the dh'oine by the shoulders. Lifting Roche's body, he pushed his legs up at the same time and draped the man over his shoulder like a potato sack. 

“Esseath aine*!” he whispered surprised at the man’s weight. Considering the dh’oine’s bulky frame, he imagined Roche heavier than he proved to be. Perhaps it was the result of the guerrilla warfare the man had been forced to undertake with the fall of Temeria and the advance of the Nilfgaardian army. He could sympathize with the lack of food and resources, the Scoia'tael being accustomed to that kind of life. Still, the forest provided more often than not for the elves and he could imagine this being far from similar for the humans. Hopefully, they'd die from sickness and hunger before they'd kill another Aen Seidhe. He snorted at the thought as he started to move slowly towards his hideout. It was about three kilometers away. Not a long distance, but light or not, carrying a human body made the journey twice as difficult, especially since he couldn't climb trees with Roche hanging over his shoulder. He kept his eyes open and his ears alert for any suspicious movement or sounds. The forest was silent. Even the birds seemed to have fled from the area. At least he would be able to hear if anything was amiss. He hoped he would not run into any trouble, such as random arachas nests or kikimore gatherings. Fighting and protecting Roche’s body at the same time could prove quite the hassle.

Around halfway he heard a low whistle. His body tensed as he ducked low behind a thick tree. The sound had come from somewhere to his left. He cursed as he adjusted the human's body on his shoulder. He was getting tired and now pissed off at the unexpected sound. Whistling was not something common to monsters. Still, there were a handful of creatures, besides man and Aen Seidhe that could reproduce that exact sound. He hoped it was the former. Peering slightly from the tree he noticed movement towards his left. A small figure was whistling, singing and jumping through the forest. It looked a lot like a godling; a godling that was harvesting berries and medicinal plants. He sighed in relief and continued his journey towards his cave. The godling would leave him in peace even if he noticed him. They did not like to involve themselves with the Aen Seidhe, especially with one of the Squirrels. His lips curled into an amused smile as he remembered the last meeting he had had with one of their kind. The little one had wriggled his nose at him and claimed in a high and mighty tone that they did not help those who smell like misery and death. Then he had turned his back on Iorveth and left. At the time, he had been shell shocked at those words, but now thinking back on them he had to agree with the little godling. The Scoia’tael was misery and death, and so were the Aen Seidhe. His soul had died a long time ago, and now his shell of a body was waiting to go after it. He was suddenly becoming far more conscious of the weight on his shoulder. They were nearing his cave and he hoped the man survived the slow journey. He didn’t want to drag a dead body for no reason at all.

The entry to his cave was masked by a curtain of poison ivy that grew on a tall rock formation. It was the perfect cover. No dh’oine would dare venture into the plant without knowing what to search for exactly. Still, it made the entry for Iorveth quite difficult with his latest addition to fashion, unconscious human male. Sighing, he put the man face down near the entrance and entered the cave. He climbed down a couple of ledges and ducked into one of the three corridors that opened up underneath. Rummaging through the items stored there, he found exactly what he needed: a blanket. He had to cover the human while entering unless he wanted to treat him from poison ivy rash alongside his other wounds. He climbed back out and draped the dh’oine on his shoulder again, not before checking the man’s pulse. It was still there, faint, but drumming underneath his fingers. He covered Roche with the blanket and entered through the poison ivy curtain. Elves were immune to the plant. More so, when the Aen Seidhe had been the only ones inhabiting this world, they used the plant for making a particular drink that was used as an aphrodisiac by lovers. Iorveth climbed the ledges carefully and headed through the middle corridor. The cave system was huge, with multiple rooms and corridors and it even had a clear water stream that in some parts was big enough to bathe in. After a couple of twists and turns, he came to a large room, which was illuminated by a hole in the ceiling. The crack was big enough that one could see the greenery that grew outside. Rock platters had formed one over the other in a cross shape, but they allowed the light to enter and diffuse all around the chamber illuminating every corner. Iorveth headed for the fireplace in the middle of the cave and placed Roche gently on the floor next to it. He laid out the blanket that covered the human and brought a couple of dried animal skins which he placed as padding on it making an improvised bed. He went back to the first corridor and grabbed a big bear skin from there and spread it on top of the dried leathers for heat. Then he laid the injured man face down on the bed. Roche was still breathing but Iorveth would have to remove the arrows, patch him up and try to treat any other injuries he might have. He groaned loudly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An stráede geehaet- A hard path 
> 
> It's my b-day! So here's another boring chapter :D Enjoy :3  
> Actually my b-day just happened to coincide with my planned release date lol. Still... :D


	4. Elaine tuathe

The fact that Roche had survived up until now was a miracle in itself, but Iorveth did not want to put fate to the test and see if the man could survive another night with arrows in him and any other injuries he might have acquired. He got up and grabbed a cauldron as he headed towards the stream that was flowing through a corner of the chamber. He filled it to the brim with water and put it on the fire to boil. Humans were extremely sensitive to unpurified water. Humans were extremely sensitive to anything. It was a wonder that they managed to get where they did. Just like those annoying little bugs; kill one and then ten more sprouts out of nowhere. He snorted at the thought as he grabbed his dagger and started cutting the light armor vest that Roche was wearing at the seams. It was too thick and hard to cut it straight through the back. It was reinforced with multiple layers of cured leather. This was most likely why Roche was still alive.

He had to tend to the wounds from the arrows immediately and only after would he check the dh’oine for other injuries. The arrows in the back needed to go first. Carefully, he lifted the back of the armor and placed it to the side, while he eyed the entry points. The skin around the arrow shafts was red and swollen, a clear sign of inflammation. There was no evident sign of puss which was always a good thing. He grabbed his small medical kit and took a small, sharp knife made of pure silver which he dropped into the boiling water alongside a silver needle. Thankfully arrow wounds were a common thing for the Scoia’tael and each member had a small kit which could address this sort of injury. Despite not being a healer himself, Iorveth had some experience with the procedure of treating Aen Seidhe that were unlucky enough to end up on the other end of a bow. Still, none of them had had arrows lodged inside their torso. These were among the most dangerous type of wounds because the arrow could hit a myriad of organs that led to a speedy death. He hoped this wasn’t the case since the dh’oine was still breathing.

Sighing, he grabbed a bottle of stashed Mahakaman spirit and poured it over his hands. He then pulled the pot of boiling water from the fire and extracted the small scalpel. It was time to get to work. Eying the arrow in the lower back he poured some alcohol over the wound and then made a small incision from the shaft and pushed his finger inside. The arrow head was thankfully stuck only in the extensor muscle courtesy of the reinforced armor and the spinal curve, so curling his finger around the head, he took it out fairly easy. He then took the sterilized needle and some thread from his medical kit and stitched the wound shut. One down two more left to go. He moved to the arrow protruding from Roche’s upper back and did the same incision. Probing the wound with his finger he found that the arrow was unmovable. It seemed that the tip was lodged inside a rib.

“Ysgarthiad, bloede saeth*” he swore glaring at the arrow shaft. He would need to make a bigger incision in order to pull the arrow from the bone. He could not simply pull it by the shaft because there was the risk that it would break and the arrow head would remain lodged in the bone while the wood tore the muscles around on the way out. Still, he would have to apply quite some force to the arrowhead to get it out so he needed a better grip on it. Nonetheless, the arrow getting stuck in the rib bone was what saved the dh’oine’s life. It protected the lungs so the arrow did minimal damage upon entry. Roche was one lucky son of a whore. Snorting, he introduced three fingers inside the wound and grabbed the metal tightly. He braced himself against Roche and pulled the arrowhead upward. At first, it didn’t budge, but then it gave way and Iorveth took it out from the wound. He threw it on the ground next to the other and stitched the remaining gap.

He wetted a piece of cloth and cleaned the blood from the stitches and then poured some more alcohol over them. The last arrow was lodged inside Roche’s right leg so he cut the man’s pants around the arrow shaft to inspect the wound. There was a lot of blood soaked into the fabric and a small trickle was still flowing from the wound. The arrow had probably nicked a smaller blood vein on its way in. He moved quickly, pulling the arrowhead from the muscle. A fresh stream of blood came out with it so he started stitching the wound together. Roche probably couldn’t afford to lose any more blood considering he hadn’t even twitched during this whole affair. He cleaned the area with alcohol and then washed the blood off his hands.

“Aep a'baeth aen tuvean minneath, bloede dh’oine**” he snorted as he took in the patched mess that was Roche. What was urgent was already fixed. He packed his kit and covered the human with a blanket and then headed towards the exit of the cave. Just stitching the man would not prevent any unpleasant complications to develop, so he needed to gather some plants and mushrooms. There were several suitable locations nearby so it took him only half an hour to find everything he needed and more. Despite the plants being most effective when fresh, dried ones could also be used. The elf stoked the fire back to life and placed another pot filled about a quarter with water on it. He then removed a handful or Celandine and chopped it into small pieces. He sprinkled it inside the pot and stirred with a wooden spoon until the water reached boiling point and then he added a dozen crushed white myrtle petals. He continued stirring until the mixture became quite thick then he added about a spoonful of alcoholest and took the pot off the fire.

He let the mixture cool down, turning back to Roche to look for other wounds. There were no evident marks on his back, so he turned the man face up and peeled the rest of his ruined armor off of him. Some minor cuts were present and a glorious blue bruise that was blooming on Vernon’s abdominal area, contrasting sharply with the man’s pale figure. Taking the cooled mixture he applied it over the injuries starting with the man’s back and then his front body. Roche’s skin was smooth and surprisingly pleasant to touch. His hands lingered on the man’s bruised skin, tracing slow, circular patterns that left a faint glowing track from the herba zireael*** ointment. Now that the man was patched up, Iorveth took his time to simply examine him. He was surprisingly pale under his armor, his skin glistening from the fire. His build was lean and wiry, muscles well defined under the skin. Iorveth was surprised to see how much of the man’s apparent bulkiness came from his choice of armor. Scarred tissue marred the dh’oine’s skin. A faint line there, a thicker cluster there painted the skin in intriguing patterns. Another scar on the abdomen where the man had been run through with a sword looked particularly vicious, though quite old. When he pulled the arrows from Roche’s back he had also noticed many scars in a crisscross pattern closely resembling those left from flagellation. He wondered if the dh’oine had been tortured by his own kind at some point. If so, it didn’t explain the loyalty the man had for his peers.

“Mistaero esseath****” he whispered as he grabbed the blanket and covered the human again. He grabbed another water bowl and put it on the fire. Despite trying his best, he knew the dh’oine had a high risk of developing an infection so he would have to brew a potion for that. It took about a day to complete so he would need to start now in order to be prepared. He took some celandine roots and put them to boil while placing green mold with berbercane fruits to macerate in cold water. He stared into the fire as he waited with Roche’s slow breathing as his only companion in the heavy silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elaine tuathe – Beautiful whisper  
> *Shit, bloody arrow. Saeth comes from Welsh again meaning arrow. There is no elder speech word to describe arrows, bows or archers LOL(isn't that just hilarious considering the elves are mainly archers?).  
> **You love the kiss of death, bloody human. It’s hard to deduce any grammatical rules from the fragments of elder speech so I have been improvising a bit :)  
> ***Elder speech name for Celandine  
> ****You are a mystery. I am totally improvising here with mystery, stole it from Italian and adapted it to resemble elder speech.  
> ^ I know, I'm a sucker for elder speech lol xD
> 
> So here's another chapter, yay. I know, I'm late with like a week, but life happened *rolls eyes*. I might be late with chapter 5 as well :(.
> 
> Other than that I hope you enjoy it and feel free to leave any comment or review or stuff :). Until next time!


	5. Aedd gynvael

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, guys, my beta abandoned me like a mofo so you will have to endure even more grammatical mistakes and misuses of past tense. Yay!

A couple of days passed with Vernon Roche lying helplessly in Iorveth’s cave, his fever breaking only hours ago. As he expected, the dh’oine had developed an infection and the potion he brewed came in handy. He force-fed the man five times a day with the disgusting liquid, each time massaging his throat so that the liquid would end up in his stomach rather than his lungs. The man had been plagued by fever induced terrors leaving Iorveth with not much to do during that time except for caring for the human and occasionally hunting for food. Also, he took the time to contemplate his current actions. The question as to why he had saved the man weighed heavily on his shoulders while no clear answer revealed itself to him. Still, after everything he has done for Roche, it would be a damn shame to just slit his throat now and end his torment. It would be so easy; the man wasn’t even conscious or aware of where he was and whom he was with.

He sighed and turned back to stare at the rabbit soup that was slowly cooking in front of him. It was enough food for two persons for quite some time. Roche has been out for days but now that his fever broke and color returned to his cheeks he knew it would be only a matter of time until the man would wake up. The thought made his stomach churn and his muscles tense. He didn’t know what to expect. Hell, he didn’t know how to react either. This particular scenario has been playing in his head for the last days, each time unfolding in different and dangerous ways.

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a low groan, making him jump slightly and whip his head towards the dh’oine. There was no movement to be seen and no sounds to be heard for the next few minutes Iorveth spent watching the man. Sighing again he got up and wetted a piece of clean cloth with cold water from the stream. He approached the man wondering in the back of his mind what exactly he was doing. So what if the man had nightmares? So what if he screamed and groaned as if in horrible pain that was definitely not from his flesh wounds? Was it his business to try and soothe the horrors? Definitely not, yet he took a seat next to the human and placed the cool cloth on his forehead, his fingers threading through the man’s revealed hair. He had been surprised when he had come from hunting the second day of Roche’s stay to see the man sprawled as if he had a fight with the blanket that was supposed to cover him. Not only the blanked and furs the man sat on looked disgruntled, but also the man’s headpiece had somehow fallen sideways, revealing short dirty black hair that was matted from sweat. Iorveth had tucked the man back under the cover of the blanket and fed him his fever potion but he didn’t put the chaperon back. It had been a strange sight at first, but now he couldn’t imagine the human any other way. Honestly, he didn’t think he could even if he wanted to. The chaperon definitely didn’t do the man justice. His straight nose and sharp face were beautifully framed by his dirty black hair giving him a much younger and innocent look. Innocent and Vernon Roche were words that Iorveth never thought possible to exist in the same sentence, but seeing the man without his headpiece, vulnerable and weak, made them occur in his mind more often than not. Still, he would rather die tied up on an anthill coated in honey than to admit that loudly to himself or to anyone else.

As Iorveth kept petting the man’s hair absentmindedly he failed to notice the slight motion of the man’s eyeballs and then he completely failed to see the flickering of eyelids as the man opened his eyes for the first time in days.

Vernon Roche was feeling as if a building had fallen over him. He couldn’t stop the small sound of pain that escaped his lips. His body tensed at that, remembering the exact situation that got him there in the first place. He kept his breathing shallow as he tried to get his body under control. Despite the pain, he could feel that he was lying on something soft and comfortable which meant that either he had been taken prisoner or someone had found him in the forest and saved his life. He had a hard time believing the men that killed his soldiers and shot him down had any gain from bringing him back from death’s door. A cool sensation on his forehead brought him back from his thoughts and fingers in his hair made him tense like a spring bow. The sensation felt nice but the fact that there was someone running their fingers through his hair (his uncovered hair for fuck’s sake!) made him extremely uncomfortable. Where was his fucking chaperon? Did the stranger take it off? He swallowed heavily feeling a disgusting taste spreading in his mouth and a sort of stickiness that usually came from medicinal brews. He forced himself to open his eyes despite his body’s unwillingness. He would not sit there without knowing who had the audacity of taking his chaperon off and running fingers through his hair. It took a couple of blinks to clear up his vision but when his pupils focused on the person that was sitting next to him his blood froze in his veins and his mouth let a most undignified squeal. Staring at him, fingers now froze atop his head was no other than the Scoia’tael leader, Iorveth.

The elf was brought back from his thoughts by the weird sound that he realized had come from the body next to him. His eyes focused on Roche’s, wide in surprise as he took notice that the man was very much so awake. Bloede ysgarthiad*, he thought as he slowly retracted his arm from Roche’s head, entirely unsure what to say or do in the situation he found himself. Despite the many scenarios he had envisioned, he did not expect this to happen. He opened his mouth to say something, but the dh’oine beat him to it.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing you son of a bitch?!” screeched Roche, glaring daggers at the elf beside him. His body hurt like a bitch, his head hurt like a bitch and there was a homicidal elf next to him that dared remove his chaperon. “Get the fuck away from me!” he shouted as he bolted upright, trying to get back from Iorveth despite his injuries. All reason was lost to him in the haze of pain and confusion that hung over his head, adrenaline pumping through his veins like wildfire.

Iorveth watched numbed as various insults flew at him from the stupid human’s mouth. He had saved the dh’oine’s pathetic little life and this was what he was receiving in return? Anger clouded his mind and his hand flew out by instinct and slapped the man across the face, turning his head with the force of the strike. Roche glared at him, spitting in his face in a clear sign of defiance. Disgust flared in Iorveth as he wiped the saliva from his cheeks, his mouth taking the shape of a vicious sneer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Bloody shit  
> Aedd gynvael – Shard of ice
> 
> Soooo, finally, something is happening woohooo. Whatever will happen next? Even the author doesn't know yet since she was too lazy to write the next chapter. x_x Feel free to review, complain, share your ideas and so on. Oh and #cliffhanger much?


	6. Mab aen varh'he

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for the long hiatus. Real life happened and I either didn't have time to write or was way too tired to do so :( ... but I'm back now, though it might take some time until the next chapter!  
> Pls don't hate me for this one lol.

Anger clouded Iorveth’s vision as he grabbed the dh’oine by the neck, pushing him back down on the ground. Roche tried to get the elf off of him but the adrenaline kick he got by seeing his enemy above him wore off and his injuries started aching tenfold, rendering him completely helpless.

‘Who do you think you are you son of a whore?!’ snarled the elf, hitting Roche across the face. He then proceeded to rip the blanket off of the human, throwing it sideways as he took in the battered form of his enemy. A vicious voice sang a song of violence in his head. Its lyrics told him to make the little human suffer and cry, to humiliate him and bring him to his place, just like the Aen Seidhe have suffered. He agreed with it and let the voice take over as he flipped the man face down and kneeling just like a rag doll. 

Roche’s eyes widened at the sudden shift and at the feeling of the elf’s body draped over him, a hand holding him by the back of his neck. Cold, hard armour was digging into his skin and Iorveth’s warm breath next to his ear sent unpleasant shivers down his spine.

‘Your place is face down and on your knees’ the elf sneered as he ripped what was left of the human’s tattered clothes, exposing the milky skin to the cold air of the cave.

An icy feeling of dread coursed through the human’s veins at those vicious words hissed into his ear. Panic took hold as he tried in vain to get the elven male off of him or at least to crawl away from the forceful embrace he found himself in. A hard blow to his back that knocked the air out of him and made him see stars was the reward for his struggles. His body went slack and his mind numb as he heard sounds of rustled clothing and armour behind.

The elf pressed harder down on the dh’oine’s neck as he brutally pushed two dry fingers in the man’s revealed entrance. Roche groaned pained, the reality of what was about to take place drowning him in despair. He had no more power left in him except to faintly try to get away from the intrusion but the elf’s hold was unrelenting.

Iorveth sneered at the human’s pathetic attempt to move as he pulled out his fingers and spit on them. He watched the man’s sprawled form as he coated his hard cock with the bare minimum of lubrication. The image of the man bowed down in front of him like a dog made his veins sing and hard cock throb with fiery anger and arousal. He lined himself with the puckered entrance and sheathed himself in with one hard thrust. He revelled in the pained scream the man underneath him let out, letting the sounds of agony wash over his senses, an ugly sneer on his lips as he started a brutal pace of thrusting inside the tight hole.

Roche felt as if his insides were ripped out by the elf’s huge cock. Pain engulfed him like fire would kindling while he tried desperately to get away from the source. His hands clawed at the dirt at the edge of the improvised bed as the elf thrust wave after wave of pain and humiliation in him. There was not even a flicker of pleasure in his body, the agony becoming so intense that his mind took pity on his abused body and he simply blacked out.

Iorveth felt when the body underneath him went completely slack yet his mind was so addled with fury and pleasure that he continued fucking the unconscious man, enjoying the heat and wetness that enveloped his cock. It didn’t take long for his seed to spill deep inside the human. Iorveth’s body went completely still, his eyes half-open in ecstasy, his hands imprinting bruises on the man’s hips as his cock pumped his load deep into the tight passage that enveloped him.

After a few moments of basking in the afterglow of pleasure, Iorveth slipped his cock out from the human and took in the picture laid out in front of him. The male’s hole was swollen and blood mixed with semen dripped down from it. Bruises in form of hands started forming on the human’s hips, while other dark bruises scattered the unconscious man’s back and sides. As the fury and lust dissipated into nothingness, the horror of what exactly he had done dawned on him just like a bucket of ice water would. He felt sick to his stomach and the desire to run away gripped his very being. Closing his pants blindly, he got up and stumbled towards the exit of the cave and into the forest, his heart pounding in his chest and his mind screaming at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mab aen varh'he - son of a bitch (mab – Welsh for son)  
> Sorry for the short and brutal chapter. Also, rape sucks and there is no love or pleasure in the act. One should never do such a thing to another person without consent.


	7. A'baeth euogrwydd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ummm hi... I have no excuse xD

The trees formed blurry lines as Iorveth ran blindly through the forest surrounding his hideout. The horror of his actions raged inside his mind preventing any coherent thought from forming. He ran and ran until his legs gave up planting him on his knees in a dark and dense patch of the forest.

His lungs burned from the effort, his breathing a fast and shallow disturbance in the silent place. An invisible claw was holding his heart, squeezing slowly and painfully,  eliciting a despaired gasp from his lips. He clawed at his chest to no avail, the pain a constant reminder of what he really was... a monster. A fucking disgusting monster no better than the ones he stood against all this time.

How could everything he has fought against translate into his own being? What difference was between him and the bloody dh’oines?

Now there was none left as he added the title of rapist next to that of murderer and pillager. He could feel the disgust towards himself rising as his stomach violently rebelled and made him dry heave towards the forest floor. He couldn’t stop the contractions of his belly as the last image of Roche, which was now permanently burned into his mind, flashed before his eyes.

What has he done? Was this what the proud Iorveth ended up at after so many years and struggles against the domination of the dh’oines? What was the point of it all if along the lines he lost his own identity? No wonder the elder elves sneered at the younglings that chose the path of war against the humans.

He had been blind then. He was still blind. His mind fogged enough by rage and violence that he lost himself to them. Bitter taste spread on his tongue as he tried to still the frantic beating of his heart and the trembling of his limbs.

He needed to go back but the thought of that made him crumble back on the ground. To see Roche again, spread and defiled would make what happened a reality.

He groaned, the sorrow in his heart translating to physical pain. Still, he couldn’t let the man in that state. He had to take responsibility for his actions and choices, at least. Taking a shaky breath he pulled himself up.

Iorveth trudged through the forest, the act of putting one leg in front of the other back towards the cave the only thought he allowed his mind to concentrate on. One, two, one, two… he slowly made his way, his shoulders crooked and heavy.

Arriving at the entrance of poison ivy he stopped, mind refusing him another step forward. Dread filled the pit of his stomach and he dried heaved again. He was afraid. The mighty Iorveth of the Scoia’tael, hater of humans, mass-murderer and terrorist afraid of looking at a bloody dh’oine that he supposedly hated. A bloody dh’oine that he should have killed as easily as plucking weeds from the ground.

He wiped his mouth and snorted at the thought even though his legs still did not move forward to cross the threshold of the plant curtain.

He was not a coward. He was a proud Aen Seidhe and he will prove so by acknowledging and taking responsibility for the mess he created. Should he have wanted the human dead he simply should have left him in the forest where he was struck down like a hedgehog.

“Bloede ysgarthiad*!” He swore as he forced his legs to move forward and enter his shelter.

Peering from the entrance of the main cave where he left the bloody dh’oine, he noticed no movement and heard no sound. The human’s form was crumpled on the fur, still and unmoving.

Coming closer he saw an array of blue and purple bruises the shape of his hands forming on the slim hips of the man. Cum and blood were dried up between his thighs as it leaked from his abused hole and his breathing was quiet and shallow. The sight made Iorveth queasy again but the feeling was becoming a familiar companion to him, enough so not to bring him on his knees again.

He couldn’t afford it anyway. He had to tend to the new damage he inflicted upon the man if he wanted to begin fixing the deed he committed.

He stoked the fire to life again and put some cold water to warm up. Thankfully, he still had some of the ointment and potion he made for Roche’s previous wounds so he didn’t need to go out in search of ingredients just yet.

He took a clean cloth, wetted with lukewarm water and started the tedious task of removing the dried up cum and blood from between the human’s legs and private parts.

His mind went blank as he mechanically wiped every dirty part of the dh’oine. There was no point in thinking, only doing. He knew he would spend enough time regretting in the future.

As soon as he finished the outer areas, he gently spread the man’s buttocks and inspected his intimate parts. The rim was inflamed and the insides needed cleaning before adding any ointment to reduce the inflammation.

Another flash of disgust directed at himself passed through his mind as he took in the damage he created. He slowly dipped two fingers into clean water and gently pressed them inside the human, trying to clean up whatever mess was left inside while avoiding further injury. He repeated this until there was only a small amount of fresh blood on his fingers.

Sighing, he washed his fingers in clean water and applied a generous amount of ointment. He slipped his fingers back in gently and coated everything he could reach with the slippery substance. He made sure to apply a generous amount both inside and outside to prevent any sort of infection and to encourage healing.

After he finished with the most important part, he massaged the remaining ointment on the human’s bruises and tucked the man under a blanket to keep him warm.

He stared at Roche for what seemed like an eternity, unmoving and unblinking, until the thought that he needed to make more ointment made him turn back towards the forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A'baeth euogrwydd – Kiss of guilt (euogrwydd – Welsh for guilt)  
> *Bloede ysgarthiad - Bloody shit
> 
> So I'm back yay... hopefully the next update won't happen after 100000 years >.> gomen  
> Feedback is always welcome you guys! Sorry for my weird english though >.<. Can someone take a look into my mind and write this more properly pleaseee? Aaaaaarrrggghh  
> I also noticed that I have a bad habit of fixating on the smallest details ever haha. OH and also after investigating properly, I've decided that Roche's hair colour is black or somewhere towards chestnut and will be as such in this fic. So I've edited the previous chapter in accordance with that.  
> Thank you all for the kudos you left during all this time! It had the effect of prodding my mind until I got off my ass and started writing again ^//^.


	8. Caelme Dearme

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are starting to happen again, slowly but surely. I've been keeping poor Roche incapacitated for waaay too long. I hope you will enjoy this chapter as well!

Vernon Roche has been out for 2 days straight. He hasn’t moved a muscle and hasn't said a thing except for some small, pained moans that might have been the product of bad dreams.

Iorveth had every reason to think that these dreams involved him. His mind still recoiled in disgust when flashes of his violence came back to him. Still, he dutifully took care of the dh’oine’s wounds and fed him healing concoctions to sustain the man.

The human was very skinny. Even more so now after so many days without food. This meant, thankfully, that his more intimate wounds had time to heal without the fear of getting infected. But Iorveth would need to feed him when the dh’oine woke up if he wanted to keep the man alive. Something light for the stomach but still nutritious.

He looked over his supplies and realized he had almost nothing left. His mind was so focused on tending to the man and trying to ignore the torment of guilt that he himself forgot to eat, not to mention to forage for his unwilling guest.

Sighing, he took another look towards the dh’oine, grabbed his bow and headed out to hunt some pheasants and search for some plants and mushrooms.

 

The first thing that came to Vernon Roche was the feeling of deep-seated exhaustion. After that came the memories of pain and humiliation and it took all his strength to keep his body from moving and his stomach from rebelling. Not that puking would do him any good since his stomach was as empty as a barren field.

He kept his breathing light to not alert anyone of his waking state and willed the feelings away. It wasn’t the first time he endured such humiliation nor will he let it break who he was. If the bastard of the elf thought that this will be the undoing of Vernon Roche he was dead wrong and Roche would prove him otherwise just to spite the bastard.

Speaking of the elven whoreson... the place surrounding him seemed rather quiet. He listened for any sounds but the environment was still and silent so he grudgingly opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of the cavern. He took in the rather big chamber of the cave and the burning fire next to a running spring to his right side. Even just turning his head to look around took most of his strength and he let it fall back on the furs when he saw that he was alone.

“Shit!” he cursed as it dawned on him that he was at the complete mercy of the squirrel. The fact that he was not dead was still a mystery to him though, on second thought, he would have preferred that option much more than being stuck with the prickly elf.

The second mystery of the day was the fact that he was not in much pain. Certainly, he was weak from not moving and eating almost anything for about a week but the pain he would have expected to course through him from the violent manner the elf took him was either gone or numb.

This left Vernon swirling in confusion. Why was he alive and even if he was, why was he not in pain? Moreso he was tucked comfortably upon furs and under blankets which he failed to realize the first time he awoke under the care of the elf.

Well, he didn’t get to contemplate those thoughts for much longer as the sound of something hitting the ground alerted him to the presence of said elf. Apparently, the squirrel was very quiet when threading, Roche only noticing him sometime after the elf entered the cave. His head turned towards the fireplace and his eyes took in his captor.

Iorveth was wearing his traditional armour of stolen pieces and special forces badges, the Temerian lilies the only one missing from the collection. He turned to his left to stow his bow away, Vernon’s eyes trailing over the red headband covering his face and the lone pointed ear proudly displayed for all to see. Elven pride, he thought mockingly, yet the squared set of shoulders and the rhythmic clench of jaw he noticed in his jailor spoke of everything but pride. Before having time to inspect that jarring thought, the squirrel turned and his lone gaze locked with that of his own, a small widening of eyes flashing through almost too fast to be seen had Roche not been staring with such intensity.

They stood in silence for long minutes just staring and doing what Roche thought was daring one another to make the first move yet the moment was broken as the elf sighed defeated and lowered himself on the ground. His hand grabbed a dead pheasant and he proceeded to start disembowelling it without sparing a second glance. Vernon frowned at this and opened his mouth, to talk or yell he didn’t know exactly nor did he spend any moment to think of what he would say.

“Food will be ready in a couple of hours. You should eat should you wish to not expire anytime soon” said Iorveth, effectively blocking anything he was preparing to let out from his mouth.

Vernon Roche found himself for the second time in the last few minutes, quite uncomfortably so, in a swirl of confusion.

“What the fuck?” he squeaked through the viscous, sticky feeling of his tongue, his mouth reflecting his thoughts without his accord. The elf just spared a second glance to his astonished burst but continued to clean meat and chop vegetables without a comment.

Roche spent the next moments of astounded silence simply staring at how his arch enemy was calmly going around making food, the scene so domestic and out of place that he decided he must be having an extremely bizarre dream, huffed incredulously and closed his eyes in hopes of waking up later in the real world.

Had Iorveth not been tormented by guilt and indecision on how to handle his current ‘guest’, he might have found Roche’s reaction quite funny yet the immediate thing he felt was relief at bypassing what he believed would be a very awkward conversation. A conversation that, should the dh’oine in question wouldn't have been exhausted, would have been replaced by violence and bloodshed.

Still, he knew this just delayed the inevitable and the dh’oine would firstly realize this was not a dream and secondly would get stronger in time and exact his revenge on Iorveth’s rather unforgivable actions. Perhaps the promise of soup would deter the human from acting rashly anytime soon and send him into an early grave. There was a certain commitment in that thought, Iorveth realized, that his subconscious made for him.

He snorted at the hilarity of his existence and turned to stare at the human while the soup was cooking over the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caelme Dearme - Calm dream
> 
> I'm trying to keep this as much in character as I can. You guys will tell me if I start going way off that trail of thought, won't you? I'm counting on you :3  
> Also, if I have any glaring grammatical mistakes you'll let me know, won't you? OwO.
> 
> Random sidenote: The Gift by softestpunk is brilliantly amazing. If you haven't read it yet and you're a Roche x Iorveth fan, you really should!


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